“And when do you expect to see him?”
“I do not know.” And all the bitterness of parting—the terrors lest life's infinite chances should make this parting perpetual—the murmurs that will rise, why hundreds and thousands who care little for one another should be always together, whilst we—we—Oh Max! it all broke out in a sob, “Papa, papa, how can I know?”
My father looked at me as if he would read me through.
“You are a good girl, and an honourable. He is honourable too. He would never persuade a child to disobey her father.”
“No, never!”
“Tell him,”—and papa turned his head away, but he did say it, I could not mistake, “tell Doctor Urquhart if he likes to come over to Rockmount, for one day only, I shall not see him, but you may.”
Max, come. Only for one day of holiday rest. It would do you good. There are green leaves in the garden, and sunshine and larks in the moorland, and—there is me. Come!